“Jesus Christ, this is a fucking shrine.”
I shriek at the sound of Sloane’s voice and jump to my feet. My precious scrapbook slips to the floor.
“You scared me,” I snap.
His eyes roam everywhere, but he hears me because he gives me a wicked grin.
Sloane’s with me again. “You’re here,” I whisper in awe, unable to believe it. I’ve resisted thoughts of the way I sent him away. It’s better to focus on his visits to me rather than our goodbye. I want to hug him, but I’m afraid he’ll reject me the way I rejected him. He’d opened up to me, shared real stories from his life, and I sent him away. Ashamed of myself, I bow my head. “Did you climb through the window again?”
Soft laughter rumbles from him and he closes the distance between us. “Your fucking entry door is unlocked, so I walked in and came to your room.”
“You sure make yourself at home here,” I mutter, over more shock now that I’ve processed his presence, as I bend to pick up the scrapbook and hug it to me. My nipples are very expressive. Dressed as I am, in sheer nightclothes, my desire for him will be revealed. One whiff of him and they’ll stand at attention. “You never did tell me the reason you were here the night I met you.”
He flinches as if I’ve said something awful, then it hits me. Raw jealousy surges through me but I paste a smile on my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I say breezily, though I can’t hide my irritated sniff. “I won’t rat you out or whatever servant you boinked. That’s our secret. Especially since she wasn’t supposed to be in one of the guest rooms.”
Guilt flashes across his face, but he turns away, his reaction kind of confusing. Unless…Oh my God, I’m so upset I’m about to keel over in a fit of anger. Instead, I attempt to affect Mom’s sophisticated contempt. “Do you like her, like her?” I ask for clarification. If he does, of course he’d feel guilty for the possibility of risking her employment.
“Her who?”
“Boink. The girl you boinked.”
Okay, maybe, not as refined as Mom.
“Can we forget that night?” he asks tightly, his lips thinning. He grabs the scrapbook and his gaze lands right on my breasts. Heat washes through me at the way he’s staring. Instead of behaving, my nipples grow harder.
Endless moments tick by as we lose ourselves in silence. My heart is pounding beneath the scrutiny of Sloane’s blue eyes. Unable to stop myself, I study his mouth and crave his perfect lips on me. They’re full and pink and beautiful. I squirm and wish for mind-reading abilities. Not only to know what he thinks of me but also to find out who in the house he slept with.
I can’t think of any of the servants who’d risk my mother’s wrath and bring a man to fuck in a room only available to them for cleaning.
I purse my lips. “Um…” What do I do? Ask Sloane Mason would he like food? Bad boy rock gods have to eat, don’t they? Yes, according to the gossip sites, Sloane’s favorite food is French fries with mayonnaise, like they serve in Europe. “Do you want fries and mayo?” I blurt, twisting my hair around my fingers.
Sloane raises his head, a brow lifted, and smirks. “I prefer fries and ketchup.”
“No, you don’t. I read what your favorite food is and it’s fries and mayo.”
Laughter bursts from him, a full-bodied sound that I can become addicted to. “Fine, if you read it, Georgie.”
The way he rasps my name sends a shiver through me and makes my panties wet. His voice, his presence, wrecks my entire body. Pounding heart. Thumping pulse. Hardened nipples. Clenching core. He both soothes me and sends me into overdrive.
“You’re hearing the truth from me,” he adds with a shrug and resumes flipping pages through my favorite scrapbook, although he’s still clearly amused.
My heart sinks. I’m so lost in disappointment and confusion, I allow him freedom to turn through it, but his sharp intake of breath snaps my attention to where it belongs. I want the ground to open up and swallow me.
He’s found his nude photos and raises his head to narrow his blue gaze on me, sweeping it from my head to my toes, which I curl into the carpet. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes darken and his breath quickens.
Ignoring him holding out the book to me, I study the floor. “What are you doing here?” I mutter, frozen in my spot.
He sets the scrapbook on my desk and saunters to a window seat. This room curves northward and looks out over a walled rose garden, instead of the pool. After glancing outside, he sits and leans his elbows on his knees, legs spread. “I came to check on you.”
My heart melts and I beam at him, deciding to take another shot at mentioning what I know about him, based on published reports. It chafes that I got his favorite food wrong. As his number one fan, I should know the basics. “How are the recording sessions going?”